'he Regarded the Wife of his Bosom With a Calculating Glance.'
“You know I never tell secrets,” she cried.
“Not often,” corrected Mr. Kybird, “but then I don't often tell you any. Wot would you say to young Nugent coming into five 'undred pounds 'is mother left 'im when he's twenty-five? He don't know it, but I do.”
“Five 'undred,” repeated his wife, “sure?”
“No,” said the other, “I'm not sure, but I know. I 'ad it from young Roberts when 'e was at Stone and Dartnell's. Five 'undred pounds! I shall get my money all right some time, and, if 'e wants a little bit to go on with, 'e can have it. He's honest enough; I can see that by his manner.”
Upstairs in the tiny room under the tiles Mr. Jack Nugent, in blissful ignorance of his landlord's generous sentiments towards him, slept the sound, dreamless sleep of the man free from monetary cares. In the sanctity of her chamber Miss Kybird, gazing approvingly at the reflection of her yellow hair and fine eyes in the little cracked looking-glass, was already comparing him very favourably with the somewhat pessimistic Mr. Silk.
Mr. Nugent's return caused a sensation in several quarters, the feeling at Equator Lodge bordering close upon open mutiny. Even Mrs. Kingdom plucked up spirit and read the astonished captain a homily upon the first duties of a parent—a homily which she backed up by reading the story of the Prodigal Son through to the bitter end. At the conclusion she broke down entirely and was led up to bed by Kate and Bella, the sympathy of the latter taking an acute form, and consisting mainly of innuendoes which could only refer to one person in the house.
Kate Nugent, who was not prone to tears, took a different line, but with no better success. The captain declined to discuss the subject, and, after listening to a description of himself in which Nero and other celebrities figured for the purpose of having their characters whitewashed, took up his hat and went out.
Jem Hardy heard of the new arrival from his partner, and, ignoring that gentleman's urgent advice to make hay while the sun shone and take Master Nugent for a walk forthwith sat thoughtfully considering how to turn the affair to the best advantage. A slight outbreak of diphtheria at Fullalove Alley had, for a time, closed that thoroughfare to Miss Nugent, and he was inclined to regard the opportune arrival of her brother as an effort of Providence on his behalf.
For some days, however, he looked for Jack Nugent in vain, that gentleman either being out of doors engaged in an earnest search for work, or snugly seated in the back parlour of the Kybirds, indulging in the somewhat perilous pastime of paying compliments to Amelia Kybird. Remittances which had reached him from his sister and aunt had been promptly returned, and he was indebted to the amiable Mr. Kybird for the bare necessaries of life. In these circumstances a warm feeling of gratitude towards the family closed his eyes to their obvious shortcomings.
He even obtained work down at the harbour through a friend of Mr. Kybird's. It was not of a very exalted nature, and caused more strain upon the back than the intellect, but seven years of roughing it had left him singularly free from caste prejudices, a freedom which he soon discovered was not shared by his old acquaintances at Sunwich. The discovery made him somewhat bitter, and when Hardy stopped him one afternoon as he was on his way home from work he tried to ignore his outstretched hand and continued on his way.
'he Even Obtained Work Down at the Harbor.'
“It is a long time since we met,” said Hardy, placing himself in front of him.
“Good heavens,” said Jack, regarding him closely, “it's Jemmy Hardy— grown up spick and span like the industrious little boys in the school-books. I heard you were back here.”
“I came back just before you did,” said Hardy. “Brass band playing you in and all that sort of thing, I suppose,” said the other. “Alas, how the wicked prosper—and you were wicked. Do you remember how you used to knock me about?”
“Come round to my place and have a chat,” said Hardy.
Jack shook his head. “They're expecting me in to tea,” he said, with a nod in the direction of Mr. Kybird's, “and honest waterside labourers who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—when the foreman is looking —do not frequent the society of the upper classes.”
“Don't be a fool,” said Hardy, politely.
“Well, I'm not very tidy,” retorted Mr. Nugent, glancing at his clothes. “I don't mind it myself; I'm a philosopher, and nothing hurts me so long as I have enough to eat and drink; but I don't inflict myself on my friends, and I must say most of them meet me more than half-way.”
“Imagination,” said Hardy.
“All except Kate and my aunt,” said Jack, firmly. “Poor Kate; I tried to cut her the other day.”
“Cut her?” echoed Hardy.
Nugent nodded. “To save her feelings,” he replied; “but she wouldn't be cut, bless her, and on the distinct understanding that it wasn't to form a precedent, I let her kiss me behind a waggon. Do you know, I fancy she's grown up rather good-looking, Jem?”
“You are observant,” said Mr. Hardy, admiringly.
“Of course, it may be my partiality,” said Mr. Nugent, with judicial fairness. “I was always a bit fond of Kate. I don't suppose anybody else would see anything in her. Where are you living now?”
“Fort Road,” said Hardy; “come round any evening you can, if you won't come now.”
Nugent promised, and, catching sight of Miss Kybird standing in the doorway of the shop, bade him good-bye and crossed the road. It was becoming quite a regular thing for her to wait and have her tea with him now, an arrangement which was provocative of many sly remarks on the part of Mrs. Kybird.
'miss Kybird Standing in the Doorway of The Shop.'
“Thought you were never coming,” said Miss Kybird, tartly, as she led the way to the back room and took her seat at the untidy tea-tray.
“And you've been crying your eyes out, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Nugent, as he groped in the depths of a tall jar for black-currant jam. “Well, you're not the first, and I don't suppose you'll be the last. How's Teddy?”
“Get your tea,” retorted Miss Kybird, “and don't make that scraping noise on the bottom of the jar with your knife. It puts my teeth on edge.”
“So it does mine,” said Mr. Nugent, “but there's a black currant down there, and I mean to have it. 'Waste not, want not.'”
“Make him put that knife down,” said Miss Kybird, as her mother entered the room. Mrs. Kybird shook her head at him. “You two are always quarrelling,” she said, archly, “just like a couple of—couple of——”
“Love-birds,” suggested Mr. Nugent.
Mrs. Kybird in great glee squeezed round to him and smote him playfully with her large, fat hand, and then, being somewhat out of breath with the exertion, sat down to enjoy the jest in comfort.
“That's how you encourage him,” said her daughter; “no wonder he doesn't behave. No wonder he acts as if the whole place belongs to him.”
The remark was certainly descriptive of Mr. Nugent's behaviour. His easy assurance and affability had already made him a prime favourite with Mrs. Kybird, and had not been without its effect upon her daughter. The constrained and severe company manners of Mr. Edward Silk showed up but poorly beside those of the paying guest, and Miss Kybird had on several occasions drawn comparisons which would have rendered both gentlemen uneasy if they had known of them.
Mr. Nugent carried the same easy good-fellowship with him the following week when, neatly attired in a second-hand suit from Mr. Kybird's extensive stock, he paid a visit to Jem Hardy to talk over old times and discuss the future.
“You ought to make friends with your father,” said the latter; “it only wants a little common sense and mutual forbearance.”
“That's all,” said Nugent; “sounds easy enough, doesn't it? No, all he wants is for me to clear out of Sunwich, and I'm not going to—until it pleases me, at any rate. It's poison to him for me to be living at the Kybirds' and pushing a trolley down on the quay. Talk about love sweetening toil, that does.”
Hardy changed the subject, and Nugent, nothing loath, discoursed on his wanderings and took him on a personally conducted tour through the continent of Australia. “And I've come back to lay my bones in Sunwich Churchyard,” he concluded, pathetically; “that is, when I've done with 'em.”
“A lot of things'll happen before then,” said Hardy.
“I hope so,” rejoined Mr. Nugent, piously; “my desire is to be buried by my weeping great-grandchildren. In fact, I've left instructions to that effect in my will—all I have left, by the way.”
“You're not going to keep on at this water-side work, I suppose?” said Hardy, making another effort to give the conversation a serious turn.
“The foreman doesn't think so,” replied the other, as he helped himself to some whisky; “he has made several remarks to that effect lately.”
He leaned back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully, by no means insensible to the comfort of his surroundings. He had not been in such comfortable quarters since he left home seven years before. He thought of the untidy litter of the Kybirds' back parlour, with the forlorn view of the yard in the rear. Something of his reflections he confided to Hardy as he rose to leave.
“But my market value is about a pound a week,” he concluded, ruefully, “so I must cut my coat to suit my cloth. Good-night.”
He walked home somewhat soberly at first, but the air was cool and fresh and a glorious moon was riding in the sky. He whistled cheerfully, and his spirits rose as various chimerical plans of making money occurred to him. By the time he reached the High Street, the shops of which were all closed for the night, he was earning five hundred a year and spending a thousand. He turned the handle of the door and, walking in, discovered Miss Kybird entertaining company in the person of Mr. Edward Silk.
“Halloa,” he said, airily, as he took a seat. “Don't mind me, young people. Go on just as you would if I were not here.”
Mr. Edward Silk grumbled something under his breath; Miss Kybird, turning to the intruder with a smile of welcome, remarked that she had just thought of going to sleep.
“Going to sleep?” repeated Mr. Silk, thunder-struck.
“Yes,” said Miss Kybird, yawning.
Mr. Silk gazed at her, open-mouthed. “What, with me 'ere?” he inquired, in trembling tones.
“You're not very lively company,” said Miss Kybird, bending over her sewing. “I don't think you've spoken a word for the last quarter of an hour, and before that you were talking of death-warnings. Made my flesh creep, you did.”
“Shame!” said Mr. Nugent.
“You didn't say anything to me about your flesh creeping,” muttered Mr. Silk.
“You ought to have seen it creep,” interposed Mr. Nugent, severely.
“I'm not talking to you,” said Mr. Silk, turning on him; “when I want the favour of remarks from you I'll let you know.”
“Don't you talk to my gentlemen friends like that, Teddy,” said Miss Kybird, sharply, “because I won't have it. Why don't you try and be bright and cheerful like Mr. Nugent?”
Mr. Silk turned and regarded that gentleman steadfastly; Mr. Nugent meeting his gaze with a pleasant smile and a low-voiced offer to give him lessons at half a crown an hour.
“I wouldn't be like 'im for worlds,” said Mr. Silk, with a scornful laugh. “I'd sooner be like anybody.”
“What have you been saying to him?” inquired Nugent.
“Nothing,” replied Miss Kybird; “he's often like that. He's got a nasty, miserable, jealous disposition. Not that I mind what he thinks.”
Mr. Silk breathed hard and looked from one to the other.
“Perhaps he'll grow out of it,” said Nugent, hopefully. “Cheer up, Teddy. You're young yet.”
“Might I arsk,” said the solemnly enraged Mr. Silk, “might I arsk you not to be so free with my Christian name?”
“He doesn't like his name now,” said Nugent, drawing his chair closer to Miss Kybird's, “and I don't wonder at it. What shall we call him? Job? What's that work you're doing? Why don't you get on with that fancy waistcoat you are doing for me?”
Before Miss Kybird could deny all knowledge of the article in question her sorely tried swain created a diversion by rising. To that simple act he imparted an emphasis which commanded the attention of both beholders, and, drawing over to Miss Kybird, he stood over her in an attitude at once terrifying and reproachful.
“Take your choice, Amelia,” he said, in a thrilling voice. “Me or 'im— which is it to be?”
'me Or 'im—which is It to Be?'
“Here, steady, old man,” cried the startled Nugent. “Go easy.”
“Me or 'im?” repeated Mr. Silk, in stern but broken accents.
Miss Kybird giggled and, avoiding his gaze, looked pensively at the faded hearthrug.
“You're making her blush,” said Mr. Nugent, sternly. “Sit down, Teddy; I'm ashamed of you. We're both ashamed of you. You're confusing us dreadfully proposing to us both in this way.”
Mr. Silk regarded him with a scornful eye, but Miss Kybird, bidding him not to be foolish, punctuated her remarks with the needle, and a struggle, which Mr. Silk regarded as unseemly in the highest degree, took place between them for its possession.
Mr. Nugent secured it at last, and brandishing it fiercely extorted feminine screams from Miss Kybird by threatening her with it. Nor was her mind relieved until Mr. Nugent, remarking that he would put it back in the pincushion, placed it in the leg of Mr. Edward Silk.
Mr. Kybird and his wife, entering through the shop, were just in time to witness a spirited performance on the part of Mr. Silk, the cherished purpose of which was to deprive them of a lodger. He drew back as they entered and, raising his voice above Miss Kybird's, began to explain his action.
“Teddy, I'm ashamed of you,” said Mr. Kybird, shaking his head. “A little joke like that; a little innercent joke.”
“If it 'ad been a darning-needle now—” began Mrs. Kybird.
“All right,” said the desperate Mr. Silk, “'ave it your own way. Let 'Melia marry 'im—I don't care—-I give 'er up.”
“Teddy!” said Mr. Kybird, in a shocked voice. “Teddy!”
Mr. Silk thrust him fiercely to one side and passed raging through the shop. The sound of articles falling in all directions attested to his blind haste, and the force with which he slammed the shop-door was sufficient evidence of his state of mind.
“Well, upon my word,” said the staring Mr. Kybird; “of all the outrageyous—”
“Never mind 'im,” said his wife, who was sitting in the easy chair, distributing affectionate smiles between her daughter and the startled Mr. Nugent. “Make 'er happy, Jack, that's all I arsk. She's been a good gal, and she'll make a good wife. I've seen how it was between you for some time.”
“So 'ave I,” said Mr. Kybird. He shook hands warmly with Mr. Nugent, and, patting that perturbed man on the back, surveyed him with eyes glistening with approval.
“It's a bit rough on Teddy, isn't it?” inquired Mr. Nugent, anxiously; “besides—”
“Don't you worry about 'im,” said Mr. Kybird, affectionately. “He ain't worth it.”
“I wasn't,” said Mr. Nugent, truthfully. The situation had developed so rapidly that it had caught him at a disadvantage. He had a dim feeling that, having been the cause of Miss Kybird's losing one young man, the most elementary notions of chivalry demanded that he should furnish her with another. And this idea was clearly uppermost in the minds of her parents. He looked over at Amelia and with characteristic philosophy accepted the position.
“We shall be the handsomest couple in Sunwich,” he said, simply.
“Bar none,” said Mr. Kybird, emphatically.
The stout lady in the chair gazed at the couple fondly. “It reminds me of our wedding,” she said, softly. “What was it Tom Fletcher said, father? Can you remember?”
“'Arry Smith, you mean,” corrected Mr. Kybird.
“Tom Fletcher said something, I'm sure,” persisted his wife.
“He did,” said Mr. Kybird, grimly, “and I pretty near broke 'is 'ead for it. 'Arry Smith is the one you're thinking of.”
Mrs. Kybird after a moment's reflection admitted that he was right, and, the chain of memory being touched, waxed discursive about her own wedding and the somewhat exciting details which accompanied it. After which she produced a bottle labelled “Port wine” from the cupboard, and, filling four glasses, celebrated the occasion in a befitting but sober fashion.
“This,” said Mr. Nugent, as he sat on his bed that night to take his boots off, “this is what comes of trying to make everybody happy and comfortable with a little fun. I wonder what the governor'll say.”
'i Wonder What the Governor'll Say.'
The news of his only son's engagement took Captain Nugent's breath away, which, all things considered, was perhaps the best thing it could have done. He sat at home in silent rage, only exploding when the well-meaning Mrs. Kingdom sought to minimize his troubles by comparing them with those of Job. Her reminder that to the best of her remembrance he had never had a boil in his life put the finishing touch to his patience, and, despairing of drawing-room synonyms for the words which trembled on his lips, he beat a precipitate retreat to the garden.
His son bore his new honours bravely. To an appealing and indignant letter from his sister he wrote gravely, reminding her of the difference in their years, and also that he had never interfered in her flirtations, however sorely his brotherly heart might have been wrung by them. He urged her to forsake such diversions for the future, and to look for an alliance with some noble, open-handed man with a large banking account and a fondness for his wife's relatives.
To Jem Hardy, who ventured on a delicate remonstrance one evening, he was less patient, and displayed a newly acquired dignity which was a source of considerable embarrassment to that well-meaning gentleman. He even got up to search for his hat, and was only induced to resume his seat by the physical exertions of his host.
“I didn't mean to be offensive,” said the latter. “But you were,” said the aggrieved man. Hardy apologized.
“Talk of that kind is a slight to my future wife,” said Nugent, firmly. “Besides, what business is it of yours?”
Hardy regarded him thoughtfully. It was some time since he had seen Miss Nugent, and he felt that he was losing valuable time. He had hoped great things from the advent of her brother, and now his intimacy seemed worse than useless. He resolved to take him into his confidence.
“I spoke from selfish motives,” he said, at last. “I wanted you to make friends with your father again.”
“What for?” inquired the other, staring.
“To pave the way for me,” said Hardy, raising his voice as he thought of his wrongs; “and now, owing to your confounded matrimonial business, that's all knocked on the head. I wouldn't care whom you married if it didn't interfere with my affairs so.”
“Do you mean,” inquired the astonished Mr. Nugent, “that you want to be on friendly terms with my father?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Nugent gazed at him round-eyed. “You haven't had a blow on the head or anything of that sort at any time, have you?” he inquired.
Hardy shook his head impatiently. “You don't seem to suffer from an excess of intellect yourself,” he retorted. “I don't want to be offensive again, still, I should think it is pretty plain there is only one reason why I should go out of my way to seek the society of your father.”
“Say what you like about my intellect,” replied the dutiful son, “but I can't think of even one—not even a small one. Not—Good gracious! You don't mean—you can't mean—”
Hardy looked at him.
“Not that,” said Mr. Nugent, whose intellect had suddenly become painfully acute—“not her?”
“Why not?” inquired the other.
Mr. Nugent leaned back in his chair and regarded him with an air of kindly interest. “Well, there's no need for you to worry about my father for that,” he said; “he would raise no objection.”
“Eh?” said Hardy, starting up from his chair.
“He would welcome it,” said Mr. Nugent, positively. “There is nothing that he would like better; and I don't mind telling you a secret—she likes you.”
Hardy reddened. “How do you know?” he stammered.
“I know it for a fact,” said the other, impressively. “I have heard her say so. But you've been very plain-spoken about me, Jem, so that I shall say what I think.”
“Do,” said his bewildered friend.
“I think you'd be throwing yourself away,” said Nugent; “to my mind it's a most unsuitable match in every way. She's got no money, no looks, no style. Nothing but a good kind heart rather the worse for wear. I suppose you know she's been married once?”
“What!” shouted the other. “Married?”
Mr. Nugent nodded. His face was perfectly grave, but the joke was beginning to prey upon his vitals in a manner which brooked no delay.
“I thought everybody knew it,” he said. “We have never disguised the fact. Her husband died twenty years ago last——”
“Twenty” said his suddenly enlightened listener. “Who?—What?”
Mr. Nugent, incapable of reply, put his head on the table and beat the air frantically with his hand, while gasping sobs rent his tortured frame.
“Dear—aunt,” he choked, “how pleas—pleased she'd be if—she knew. Don't look like that, Hardy. You'll kill me.”
“You seem amused,” said Hardy, between his teeth.
“And you'll be Kate's uncle,” said Mr. Nugent, sitting up and wiping his eyes. “Poor little Kate.”
He put his head on the table again. “And mine,” he wailed. “Uncle jemmy!—will you tip us half-crowns, nunky?”
Mr. Hardy's expression of lofty scorn only served to retard his recovery, but he sat up at last and, giving his eyes a final wipe, beamed kindly upon his victim.
“Well, I'll do what I can for you,” he observed, “but I suppose you know Kate's off for a three months' visit to London to-morrow?”
The other observed that he didn't know it, and, taught by his recent experience, eyed him suspiciously.
“It's quite true,” said Nugent; “she's going to stay with some relatives of ours. She used to be very fond of one of the boys—her cousin Herbert—so you mustn't be surprised if she comes back engaged. But I daresay you'll have forgotten all about her in three months. And, anyway, I don't suppose she'd look at you if you were the last man in the world. If you'll walk part of the way home with me I'll regale you with anecdotes of her chilhood which will probably cause you to change your views altogether.”
In Fullalove Alley Mr. Edward Silk, his forebodings fulfilled, received the news of Amelia Kybird's faithlessness in a spirit of' quiet despair, and turned a deaf ear to the voluble sympathy of his neighbours. Similar things had happened to young men living there before, but their behaviour had been widely different to Mr. Silk's. Bob Crump, for instance, had been jilted on the very morning he had arranged for his wedding, but instead of going about in a state of gentle melancholy he went round and fought his beloved's father—merely because it was her father—and wound up an exciting day by selling off his household goods to the highest bidders. Henry Jones in similar circumstances relieved his great grief by walking up and down the alley smashing every window within reach of his stick.
'a Spirit of Quiet Despair.'
But these were men of spirit; Mr. Silk was cast in a different mould, and his fair neighbours sympathized heartily with him in his bereavement, while utterly failing to understand any man breaking his heart over Amelia Kybird.
His mother, a widow of uncertain age, shook her head over him and hinted darkly at consumption, an idea which was very pleasing to her son, and gave him an increased interest in a slight cold from which he was suffering.
“He wants taking out of 'imself,” said Mr. Wilks, who had stepped across the alley to discuss the subject with his neighbour; “cheerful society and 'obbies—that's what 'e wants.”
“He's got a faithful 'eart,” sighed Mrs. Silk. “It's in the family; 'e can't 'elp it.”
“But 'e might be lifted out of it,” urged Mr. Wilks. “I 'ad several disappointments in my young days. One time I 'ad a fresh gal every v'y'ge a'most.”
Mrs. Silk sniffed and looked up the alley, whereat two neighbours who happened to be at their doors glanced up and down casually, and retreated inside to continue their vigil from the windows.
“Silk courted me for fifteen years before I would say 'yes,'” she said, severely.
“Fifteen years!” responded the other. He cast his eyes upwards and his lips twitched. The most casual observer could have seen that he was engaged in calculations of an abstruse and elusive nature.
“I was on'y seven when 'e started,” said Mrs. Silk, sharply.
Mr. Wilks brought his eyes to a level again. “Oh, seven,” he remarked.
“And we was married two days before my nineteenth birthday,” added Mrs. Silk, whose own arithmetic had always been her weak point.
“Just so,” said Mr. Wilks. He glanced at the sharp white face and shapeless figure before him. “It's hard to believe you can 'ave a son Teddy's age,” he added, gallantly.
“It makes you feel as if you're getting on,” said the widow.
The ex-steward agreed, and after standing a minute or two in silence made a preliminary motion of withdrawal.
“Beautiful your plants are looking,” said Mrs. Silk, glancing over at his window; “I can't think what you do to 'em.”
The gratified Mr. Wilks began to explain. It appeared that plants wanted almost as much looking after as daughters.
“I should like to see 'em close,” said Mrs. Silk. “Come in and 'ave a look at 'em,” responded her neighbour.
Mrs. Silk hesitated and displayed a maidenly coyness far in excess of the needs of the situation. Then she stepped across, and five seconds later the two matrons, with consternation writ large upon their faces, appeared at their doors again and, exchanging glances across the alley, met in the centre.
They were more surprised an evening or two later to see Mr. Wilks leave his house to pay a return visit, bearing in his hand a small bunch of his cherished blooms. That they were blooms which would have paid the debt of Nature in a few hours at most in no way detracted from the widow's expressions of pleasure at receiving them, and Mr. Wilks, who had been invited over to cheer up Mr. Silk, who was in a particularly black mood, sat and smiled like a detected philanthropist as she placed them in water.
'a Return Visit.'
“Good evenin', Teddy,” he said, breezily, with a side-glance at his hostess. “What a lovely day we've 'ad.”
“So bright,” said Mrs. Silk, nodding with spirit.
Mr. Wilks sat down and gave vent to such a cheerful laugh that the ornaments on the mantelpiece shook with it. “It's good to be alive,” he declared.
“Ah, you enjoy your life, Mr. Wilks,” said the widow.
“Enjoy it!” roared Mr. Wilks; “enjoy it! Why shouldn't I? Why shouldn't everybody enjoy their lives? It was what they was given to us for.”
“So they was,” affirmed Mrs. Silk; “nobody can deny that; not if they try.”
“Nobody wants to deny it, ma'am,” retorted Mr. Wilks, in the high voice he kept for cheering-up purposes. “I enjoy every day o' my life.”
He filled his pipe, chuckling serenely, and having lit it sat and enjoyed that. Mrs. Silk retired for a space, and returning with a jug of ale poured him out a glass and set it by his elbow.
“Here's your good 'ealth, ma'am,” said Mr. Wilks, raising it. “Here's yours, Teddy—a long life and a 'appy one.”
Mr. Silk turned listlessly. “I don't want a long life,” he remarked.
His mother and her visitor exchanged glances.
“That's 'ow 'e goes on,” remarked the former, in an audible whisper. Mr. Wilks nodded, reassuringly.
“I 'ad them ideas once,” he said, “but they go off. If you could only live to see Teddy at the age o' ninety-five, 'e wouldn't want to go then. 'E'd say it was crool hard, being cut off in the flower of 'is youth.”
Mrs. Silk laughed gaily and Mr. Wilks bellowed a gruff accompaniment. Mr. Edward Silk eyed them pityingly.
“That's the 'ardship of it,” he said, slowly, as he looked round from his seat by the fireplace; “that's where the 'ollowness of things comes in. That's where I envy Mr. Wilks.”
“Envy me?” said the smiling visitor; “what for?”
“Because you're so near the grave,” said Mr. Silk.
Mr. Wilks, who was taking another draught of beer, put the glass down and eyed him fixedly.
“That's why I envy you,” continued the other.
“I don't want to live, and you do, and yet I dessay I shall be walking about forty and fifty years after you're dead and forgotten.”
“Wot d'ye mean—near the grave?” inquired Mr. Wilks, somewhat shortly.
“I was referring to your age,” replied the other; “it's strange to see 'ow the aged 'ang on to life. You can't 'ave much pleasure at your time o' life. And you're all alone; the last withered branch left.”
“Withered branch!” began Mr. Wilks; “'ere, look 'ere, Teddy——”
“All the others 'ave gone,” pursued Mr. Silk, “and they're beckoning to you.”
“Let 'em beckon,” said Mr. Wilks, coldly. “I'm not going yet.”
“You're not young,” said Mr. Silk, gazing meditatively at the grate, “and I envy you that. It can only be a matter of a year or two at most before you are sleeping your last long sleep.”
“Teddy!” protested Mrs. Silk.
“It's true, mother,” said the melancholy youth. “Mr. Wilks is old. Why should 'e mind being told of it? If 'e had 'ad the trouble I've 'ad 'e'd be glad to go. But he'll 'ave to go, whether 'e likes it or not. It might be tonight. Who can tell?”
Mr. Wilks, unasked, poured himself out another glass of ale, and drank it off with the air of a man who intended to make sure of that. It seemed a trifle more flat than the last.
“So many men o' your age and thereabouts,” continued Mr. Silk, “think that they're going to live on to eighty or ninety, but there's very few of 'em do. It's only a short while, Mr. Wilks, and the little children'll be running about over your grave and picking daisies off of it.”
“Ho, will they?” said the irritated Mr. Wilks; “they'd better not let me catch 'em at it, that's all.”
“He's always talking like that now,” said Mrs. Silk, not without a certain pride in her tones; “that's why I asked you in to cheer 'im up.”
“All your troubles'll be over then,” continued the warning voice, “and in a month or two even your name'll be forgotten. That's the way of the world. Think 'ow soon the last five years of your life 'ave passed; the next five'll pass ten times as fast even if you live as long, which ain't likely.”
“He talks like a clergyman,” said Mrs. Silk, in a stage whisper.
Mr. Wilks nodded, and despite his hostess's protests rose to go. He shook hands with her and, after a short but sharp inward struggle, shook hands with her son. It was late in the evening as he left, but the houses had not yet been lit up. Dim figures sat in doorways or stood about the alley, and there was an air of peace and rest strangely and uncomfortably in keeping with the conversation to which he had just been listening. He looked in at his own door; the furniture seemed stiffer than usual and the tick of the clock more deliberate. He closed the door again and, taking a deep breath, set off towards the life and bustle of the Two Schooners.
'he Set off Towards the Life and Bustle of The Two Schooners.'
Time failed to soften the captain's ideas concerning his son's engagement, and all mention of the subject in the house was strictly forbidden. Occasionally he was favoured with a glimpse of his son and Miss Kybird out together, a sight which imparted such a flavour to his temper and ordinary intercourse that Mrs. Kingdom, in unconscious imitation of Mr. James Hardy, began to count the days which must elapse before her niece's return from London. His ill-temper even infected the other members of the household, and Mrs. Kingdom sat brooding in her bedroom all one afternoon, because Bella had called her an “overbearing dish-pot.”
The finishing touch to his patience was supplied by a little misunderstanding between Mr. Kybird and the police. For the second time in his career the shopkeeper appeared before the magistrates to explain the circumstances in which he had purchased stolen property, and for the second time he left the court without a stain on his character, but with a significant magisterial caution not to appear there again.
'for the Second Time he Left The Court Without a Stain On His Character.'
Jack Nugent gave evidence in the case, and some of his replies were deemed worthy of reproduction in the Sunwich Herald, a circumstance which lost the proprietors a subscriber of many years' standing.
One by one various schemes for preventing his son's projected alliance were dismissed as impracticable. A cherished design of confining him in an asylum for the mentally afflicted until such time as he should have regained his senses was spoilt by the refusal of Dr. Murchison to arrange for the necessary certificate; a refusal which was like to have been fraught with serious consequences to that gentleman's hopes of entering the captain's family.
Brooding over his wrongs the captain, a day or two after his daughter's return, strolled slowly down towards the harbour. It was afternoon, and the short winter day was already drawing towards a close. The shipping looked cold and desolate in the greyness, but a bustle of work prevailed on the Conqueror, which was nearly ready for sea again. The captain's gaze wandered from his old craft to the small vessels dotted about the harbour and finally dwelt admiringly on the lines of the whaler Seabird, which had put in a few days before as the result of a slight collision with a fishing-boat. She was high out of the water and beautifully rigged. A dog ran up and down her decks barking, and a couple of squat figures leaned over the bulwarks gazing stolidly ashore.
There was something about the vessel which took his fancy, and he stood for some time on the edge of the quay, looking at her. In a day or two she would sail for a voyage the length of which would depend upon her success; a voyage which would for a long period keep all on board of her out of the mischief which so easily happens ashore. If only Jack——
He started and stared more intently than before. He was not an imaginative man, but he had in his mind's eye a sudden vision of his only son waving farewells from the deck of the whaler as she emerged from the harbour into the open sea, while Amelia Kybird tore her yellow locks ashore. It was a vision to cheer any self-respecting father's heart, and he brought his mind back with some regret to the reality of the anchored ship.
He walked home slowly. At the Kybirds' door the proprietor, smoking a short clay pipe, eyed him with furtive glee as he passed. Farther along the road the Hardys, father and son, stepped briskly together. Altogether a trying walk, and calculated to make him more dissatisfied than ever with the present state of affairs. When his daughter shook her head at him and accused him of going off on a solitary frolic his stock of patience gave out entirely.